28 Summers (21 page)

Jake’s only worry is that he even considered working for the NRA. He remembers the long-ago phone conversation he had with Mallory while they were both still in college.
I’m one of the good guys, Mallory.
He’s going to make sure that’s true.

Ursula gets no downtime. The week following the shooting, she’s assigned as the lead attorney—a tremendous honor—on a case in Lubbock, Texas. Lubbock is closer than Las Vegas, but it takes longer to get there because there aren’t any direct flights. Commuting home on the weekends won’t be feasible, though staying in Lubbock is no treat; they’ll have her at a Hyatt Place near the Texas Tech campus. Ursula can’t see any reason for Jake to visit. There is nothing to do but work.

“I hope Anders is on your team?” Jake says when she tells him about the assignment, though he doesn’t.

“Oh, he is,” Ursula says. “We do well together. He gets me. They assigned Mark to a different case, so it’s me, Anders, a first-year associate named AJ, and two paralegals.” She pauses. “AJ looks like a supermodel. I bet she and Anders will be engaged by the time we finish.”

Jake knows Ursula far too well for him to relax at this statement. She never, ever comments on other women’s looks; to Ursula, the value of a woman is how smart she is, how competent, how interesting, so she is saying this simply to put Jake’s mind at ease. But why?

“I feel bad leaving you alone for the rest of the summer,” she says. “We didn’t get a chance to go away.”

“It’s fine,” Jake says. “Your career comes first.”

Ursula wraps her arms around him. “Will you go to Nantucket?” she asks. “On Labor Day weekend?”

“Yes,” Jake says.

He arrives on Nantucket on Friday and Mallory is there to pick him up at the airport in the Blazer. However, instead of driving down the no-name road toward the cottage, she heads into town.

“Uh-oh,” he says. “Are we changing up the program?”

“’Fraid so,” she says. She pulls into one of the reserved spots in front of the A and P and Jake feels a heightened sense of concern. Town means people and people means a greater chance of bumping into someone he knows. The past couple of summers they have frequently seen Mallory’s students or former students or parents of students while they were out and about. Mallory always introduces him as “our family friend Jake,” which makes their relationship sound platonic and innocent while also being true. But even so, Jake is uncomfortable. He feels like he’s wearing a T-shirt that says
I’M CHEATING ON MY WIFE.

He lost all his chips in one fell swoop in Vegas, but the real gamble he takes is coming to Nantucket every year like this. He wonders what the odds are that they’ll
never
be discovered. A thousand to one?

“Where are we going?” Even across the parking lot, he can hear the end-of-summer revelry over at the Gazebo. He imagines that crowd peppered with people from Hopkins, Notre Dame, Georgetown, all waiting for him like land mines.

“I bought a boat,” she says. “We’re going to Tuckernuck!”

The back of the Blazer is packed with grocery bags and Mallory’s monogrammed duffel. They carry all the supplies down the dock to a slip where a sleek sailboat awaits. It’s called
Greta,
and it has one 250-horsepower Yamaha motor hanging off the back. The hull is painted teal blue and there’s a small cabin below. Jake can’t believe it.

“This is yours?”

“Meet my Contessa Twenty-Six,” Mallory says. She goes on to say that she got the sailboat the same way she got her bike and the Blazer—someone wanted to get rid of it. “When I broke up with the Newport guy, I realized that the thing I missed most about him was spending time on the water. So I took sailing lessons. I just finished the advanced course last week.”

Yes, Jake remembers her mentioning the sailing lessons the year before. He also recalls being jealous of her instructor, Christopher, until she let it slip that Christopher was nearly eighty years old. “Is this Christopher’s boat?” Jake asks. “Did Christopher die?”

“He’s still alive,” Mallory says. “But he can’t sail anymore, his wife made him stop. So he basically
gave
me his boat. All I had to do was hire his friend Sergei to do the overhaul.” She climbs aboard in bare feet and Jake sheds his shoes and follows. “And I bought a new motor. Not cheap, but completely worth it.”

“Good job, Mal,” Jake says. “I’m so proud of you.” He pops downstairs to the cabin, which is simple but cozy; there’s a galley kitchen, a navigation table, a V-shaped berth, and a head. “So where did you say we were going again?”

They’re going to Tuckernuck, which is a completely separate island within spitting distance of the west coast of Nantucket but a world apart. Tuckernuck is private; only the people who own property there and their guests are allowed. There are twenty-two homes serviced by generators and wells. There are no public buildings on Tuckernuck, not even a general store. There is no internet, no cable TV, and limited cell service.

This describes Ursula’s idea of hell, Jake thinks. And his own idea of heaven.

Mallory anchors
Greta
off Whale Island and they wade ashore with their luggage and provisions. Mallory sets off alone on foot to the house, which is three-quarters of a mile away. Jake stays behind with the things. He feels like a pioneer. What do you need to create a life, after all? Food, clothing, shelter, a person to love. Jake marvels at the sheer beauty around him. Whale Island isn’t an island at all but rather a ribbon of white sand that is the only place boats can anchor. Beyond lie green acres crisscrossed with sandy paths and, here and there, a glimpse of gray-shingled rooftops. Across a narrow channel lies Smith Point and the island of Nantucket, which seems like a metropolis in comparison.

Jake hears someone calling his name and sees Mallory sitting behind the wheel of a battered red Jeep with no top and no doors.

They’re off!

The house belongs to the family of Dr. Major’s wife and was built in 1922. It’s a simple saltbox upside-down house with a great room upstairs that has enormous plate-glass windows all the way around for 360-degree views of the island and the water beyond. Mrs. Major’s niece recently redecorated, so the place feels like a graciously appointed Robinson Crusoe hideaway. There’s a rattan sofa and papasan chairs with ivory cushions; there are funky rope hammocks in the corners, and the plywood floor is painted with wide lemon-yellow and white stripes. Jake is surprised to see a small TV with a shelf of videos, across which lies a hand-painted sign:
Rainy Day Only.

Jake whistles. He feels like they’ve stepped into another world. No one will find them here.

It’s their seventh weekend together, lucky seven, maybe, because it’s the best yet. On Friday night, Mallory grills burgers, as usual, and although there’s a small cookstove, she grills the corn as well. On Saturday, they pull two bikes out of the shed and explore the island. They visit both ponds—North Pond, which they swim in, and smaller and murkier East Pond, which they don’t. They lie on three different sections of golden-sand beach. They see other people from afar and simply wave; there’s no reason to exchange any words. It would feel like talking in church.

On Sunday, they hike through the middle of the island. Mallory shows Jake the old firehouse and the old school. Most of the other houses are shuttered now that the summer is drawing to a close. Jake is captivated by a small cottage that has clearly seen better days. Its windows are clouded and cracked, the paint on the trim is peeling, and the gutter on the front appears to be hanging on by one rusted screw. It has a deep porch that is oddly reminiscent of
Out of Africa,
Jake thinks, and though he isn’t prone to adopting strays, he can’t help but imagine what it would be like to buy the place and fix it up. He says as much to Mallory, who scrunches up her eyes behind her sunglasses.
“You
have crummy taste.”

“It’s off the grid,” he says.

“Put mildly,” she says.

“We could grow old together here,” he says. It’s always on their Sundays that he starts to feel this way—like he won’t survive if he leaves her.

“How’s Ursula?” Mallory hasn’t asked until now, and he knows her timing is no accident. When he talks about growing old together, Mallory gently reminds him that he’s already vowed to grow old with someone else.

“Things are tough,” he says.

“Good,” Mallory says. She squeezes his hand. “I’m kidding. What’s going on? Can you tell me?”

“I know the person I married,” he says. “But I’m still shocked by the way she is sometimes.” He then regales Mallory with the story of his trip to Vegas.

“Ouch,” Mallory says. “Have you considered that maybe what draws you to Ursula is that she makes herself unavailable? And I’m too available.”

“You’re not available at all,” Jake says.

“Too emotionally available,” Mallory says. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I?” Jake says. He turns away from the house to face her. A red-tailed hawk circles overhead, but there’s no one else in sight. It feels like they’re the last two people on the planet. He realizes that every single year he has been waiting for Mallory to cry uncle and say,
That’s it, I give up, please leave Ursula and move to Nantucket, or I’ll come to you, or we’ll make it work long distance.
But she never says this, and so what can Jake think but that Mallory likes the arrangement the way it is? She prefers it to a bigger commitment. She has him…and she has her freedom, which, in years past, has meant other men. “I’m going to be honest here, Mal. I’m not sure how you feel about me.”

“Jake,” she says. “I love you.”

She said it.

I love you
.

Jake has said the words to her thousands of times in his mind, whether Mallory was lying in bed next to him or six hundred miles away.

He doesn’t want to mess up this moment. He wants it to be unforgettable. He’s going to make this a moment Mallory thinks about not only for the next 362 days, but for the rest of her life.

“I love you too, Mallory Blessing,” he says. “I. Love. You. Too.”

It works; tears are standing in her eyes. She hears him—and, more important, she believes him.

When he kisses her, however, she pushes him away. “We have to go,” she says. “We have to be at Whale Island by six. I have a surprise.”

The surprise is a strapping, incredibly handsome man who pulls up to Whale Island in a thirty-six-foot Contender. Jake squares his shoulders and tries to sit up straighter in the wonky seat of the old Jeep while Mallory runs over to greet their visitor. Jake isn’t sure how he feels about this particular surprise.

Mallory and Mr. America talk for what seems like an awfully long time—yes, Jake is jealous—then Mr. America hands Mallory a paper shopping bag and she gives him a kiss on the cheek and waves goodbye. Mr. America revs his engines, expertly sweeps the boat around, and heads back in the direction of Nantucket.

“Who was that?” Jake asks.

“Barrett Lee,” Mallory says. “He caretakes all the homes out here, and in the summertime, he brings provisions.”

“Did we need provisions?” Jake asks.

Mallory opens the bag. Jake sees familiar white cartons and catches a whiff of fried dumplings.

“He brought our Chinese food,” she says. “Now let’s go home. We have a movie to watch.”

What are we talking about in 2000? Hanging chads; Broward County; Katherine Harris; the Human Genome Project; Yemen; the Subway Series; Walter Matthau; the International Space Station; getting voted off the island; Charles M. Schulz; Sydney Olympics; Slobodan Milošević Pilates; Tony, Carmela, Christopher, Big Pussy, Paulie Walnuts; USS
Cole;
Microsoft antitrust;
Almost Famous;
EVOO; “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

T
he new millennium is upon us and guess what: Cooper Blessing is getting married again!

His fiancée’s name is Valentina Suarez. She’s an administrative assistant at the Brookings Institution. Valentina is from Uruguay, a beach town called Punta Este, which is a renowned resort area with a well-heeled international clientele. Valentina’s family owns a beachfront restaurant, and for this reason, they can’t get away, even for Valentina’s wedding. This sounds fishy, and when Mallory presses her brother, he admits that Valentina’s family have no idea she’s getting married because Valentina didn’t tell them. The reason she didn’t tell them is that they wouldn’t approve. They would like Valentina to marry a Latino, preferably a fellow Uruguayan, preferably the son of the owners of the casino next door to their restaurant, Pablo, who was Valentina’s childhood sweetheart.

Mallory would have guessed that a second wedding—and one where the bride would have no family in attendance—would be a small, modest affair. Maybe even a courthouse ceremony followed by lunch.

But no. Valentina has always dreamed of a big wedding, and Cooper plans to make this dream come true—which pleases no one as much as it does Kitty.

“We get to do the whole thing over,” Kitty says. “And in June, which is much better.”

Mallory is to serve as Valentina’s maid of honor. Fray will be the best man—again. Is Cooper having any other ushers?

“Jake. Jake McCloud,” Cooper says, as though Mallory might not remember him. “And Valentina will have her downstairs neighbor, Carlotta, as a bridesmaid.”

For Cooper’s second wedding, we once again return to Roland Park Presbyterian, which Kitty Blessing decks out in a palette of pinks. The flower of choice is the peony. Everyone loves peonies—but is there such a thing as too many peonies? If so, that’s the case at Cooper’s second wedding.

Mallory’s dress is a standard floor-length sheath in ballet-slipper satin. She gets her hair styled the same way she did for the first wedding, only with tiny pink roses tucked into the chignon rather than baby’s breath.

Mallory sees Jake at the rehearsal an hour before the ceremony and her hopes feel like lemmings rushing to the edge of a cliff. Will they be dashed? Has Jake brought Ursula? Jake and Mallory both have cell phones now and they’ve exchanged numbers, but the rules they established years earlier still apply. Mallory isn’t to contact him for any reason other than engagement, marriage, pregnancy, or death. So she didn’t call him to ask if he was bringing Ursula to Cooper’s wedding. She’ll know soon enough.

He’s wearing a dove-gray morning jacket with tails. Again: tails. Kitty likes things as formal as possible.

When Jake sees Mallory, he raises his eyebrows. In appreciation—yeah? She looks good? He comes over and kisses her. Chastely. It’s torturous.

In her ear, he says, “She’s here. I’m sorry.”

Mallory will not let this unfortunate piece of information ruin the evening ahead.

“Great,” she says. “I look forward to catching up with her.”

During the ceremony, which is performed by Reverend Dewbury with as much hopeful optimism as he displayed at Cooper’s first wedding, Mallory turns her head to survey the guests. On the groom’s side, fourth row back, seated on the aisle, is Ursula de Gournsey in a stunning seafoam-green appliqued sundress with a sweetheart neckline. Her hair is long and shiny, parted to the side; she’s wearing bright red lipstick. Mallory can’t stop staring at her until, in one awful moment, Ursula notices her and they lock eyes. Mallory snaps her attention back to her brother, that tall, smiling golden boy, the most quality person Mallory has ever known. Mallory wants to believe that Cooper’s love for Valentina will last until the grave, but secretly, she feels that this wedding has
doomed
written all over it.

The reception is, once again, at the country club, only this time the cocktail hour and pictures are held outside with the emerald links of the golf course in the background. Because it’s June 24, the daylight is never-ending, and even at seven thirty, there’s a foursome—the Deckers and the Whipps—still finishing up at the eighteenth hole. Wedding guests can hear the
thwock
of Paulson Whipp’s shot off the tee, but instead of admiring her husband’s drive, Carol Whipp squints toward the clubhouse and says, “That’s Cooper Blessing’s wedding. Oh, and look—isn’t that Mallory? I wonder why she hasn’t met anyone yet.”

This will be a frequently asked question of our girl this evening:
When will it be your turn?

Mallory greets the question with irritation and embarrassment, but the people who ask are friends of Senior and Kitty; Mallory has known them all forever, and she understands that they only want to see her happy (which apparently means “paired off”). She can’t bear to give them false hope, however, so she says, “This might be a case of always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

Fray overhears her. “Amen,” he says. “I, for one, am never getting married.”

“Cooper is getting married enough for all of us,” Mallory says. “Wanna come with me to the bar?”

“I haven’t had a drink in six years, nine months, and two weeks,” Fray says. “Since my trip to Nantucket.”

Six years, nine months, two weeks. This, then, is how long she and Jake have been together. “Just come with me and get a seltzer, then,” Mallory says. “I need a bodyguard to protect me.”

“From whom?” Fray says.

“Everyone,” she says.

There’s a seated dinner, salmon or lamb, new potatoes, tiny sweet peas. Mallory sneaks glances at the next table. Ursula isn’t eating; she never eats, Jake has confided—though tonight, Mallory isn’t eating either. She’s too anxious. Jake is talking to Geri Gladstone, who is seated to his right. Does Jake know that Geri is Leland’s mother? Leland and Fiella were invited to the wedding, but Fifi is on tour in Europe and Leland went with her. Geri Gladstone has gained weight, most of it in bags under her eyes and a pooch under her chin; Mallory doesn’t like to be ungenerous but she wishes things had gone the opposite way when Steve left her for Sloane Dooley—she wishes that Geri had become incredibly slender and started dating Cal Ripken Jr.

Mallory is drinking champagne but she’s careful
not
to dive headfirst into glass after glass. She doesn’t want to be the drunk girl at the wedding—at least, not yet. She thinks back to the sweet longing she felt for Jake at Cooper’s first wedding; it seems so mild and innocent compared to the wild jealous storm brewing within her tonight. She loves Jake now. Their last weekend on Tuckernuck was sublime, and Mallory doubts they’ll ever be able to top it. And yet, she says this every year, and isn’t every year just a bit better than the last? Their relationship grows like a tree—the roots go deeper and they add a ring around the trunk.

The band starts to play for the first dances. Cooper heads out to the floor with Kitty, Valentina with Senior. Valentina looks beautiful and happy—but
is
she happy without her family? Or is she just pretending, like Mallory?

(She’s pretending. Valentina can’t believe lightning didn’t strike the altar, so blasphemous is this thing she’s doing, marrying without her parents’ blessing, without her parents’
knowledge
. Her parents are skiing in Las Leñas this weekend, for the elder Suarezes are very well off, very sophisticated, very active, and yet they are of one mind when it comes to the future of their daughter Valentina. They expect her to return to Uruguay for good and marry Pablo Flores. In fact, Señor and Señora Suarez will
see
Pablo in the lodge, and the three of them will discuss Valentina’s return as though it’s a given, none of them expecting that she’s dancing at her own wedding with her brand-new father-in-law.)

Someone taps Mallory on the shoulder. It’s Fray. “Wanna sneak a cigarette?” he asks.

“Maybe in a minute,” Mallory says. Commiserating with Fray has its appeal but right at this moment, Mallory wants to be alone. She heads for the ladies’ room.

The ladies’ room at the club hasn’t been renovated since 1973, which makes it look hopelessly old-fashioned but also comforting. One enters a lounge with rose-colored wall-to-wall carpeting and a rose-colored Naugahyde divan and three stools with needlepointed covers that are positioned under a long counter. Above the counter is a mirror where, for generations, ladies have applied lipstick, powdered their noses, and stared into their own eyes pondering…what? Well, all kinds of things:
What am I doing with Roger? Do I have a drinking problem? Why didn’t I pursue a doctorate? How much should I pay the babysitter? Do I look fat? Do I look old? Why can’t Roger stop bashing
[Ford/Carter/Reagan]
so loudly in public? Why is Helen giving me the silent treatment? How long until I can go home to bed?

There’s a cut-glass bowl of butter mints, individually wrapped in cream-colored cellophane. Out of habit, Mallory takes a handful and drops them into her clutch. Just as Mallory is feeling a small burst of joy at bumping into her old friend the butter mint, she hears a noise coming from the ladies’ room proper. Someone retching.

Mallory quickly enters a stall; the retching continues. Someone has had too much to drink—but who? This wedding reception is decidedly tamer than Cooper’s first. Where is Cooper’s friend Brian from Brookings? He was oodles of fun, and, if Mallory isn’t mistaken, he succeeded in making Jake jealous.

(Brian Novak is married with three children, and because he unwisely invested in a crepe restaurant in the town of Cheverly, Maryland, where he lives, he’s three months behind on his mortgage, his wife has had to take a weekend job as a receptionist at a walk-in emergency clinic, and he can’t come to Cooper’s wedding because he is stuck at home caring for the kids and worrying about foreclosure. At this very moment, Brian is fervently wishing he were in Baltimore, spinning Mallory around on the dance floor. She was cute, with her freckles, ocean-colored eyes, that tiny gap between her lower teeth, and she had a sense of mischievous fun, which is more than Brian can presently say for his wife.)

When Mallory comes out of the stall, she sees Ursula de Gournsey leaning over the sink, rinsing out her mouth. Mallory freezes.

“Are you okay?” Mallory asks. Was it
Ursula
she heard retching? Apparently—they’re the only two people in the ladies’ room.

Ursula’s eyes meet Mallory’s in the mirror. Her skin is paste gray.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she says.

Pregnant.

It feels like several days pass while Mallory is sucked down into a spiral of agonizing self-pity, jealousy, anger, and spite. In fact, it’s amazing that Mallory is still upright. Let’s return to the tree analogy: It feels like Ursula has taken a freshly sharpened ax and felled the relationship between Mallory and Jake at its very base. Despite this, Mallory takes a step forward, turns on the water in the sink next to Ursula’s, pumps out a dime-size squirt of pearlescent gardenia-scented hand soap (another aspect of this ladies’ room that transports Mallory back to her childhood), smiles into the mirror, and says, “Wow! Congratulations!”

“No,” Ursula says, tears standing in her eyes. “This is awful. This is a disaster.”

Mallory dries her hands on one of the paper hand towels embossed with the country club’s logo and then hurls it into the trash. There’s a flare of pure fury: Having Jake’s baby is
awful?
It’s a
disaster?

Mallory supposes that Ursula is upset about the pregnancy because it will interfere with her trying to make partner at the firm. Jake has made how Ursula feels about work crystal clear.

Just as Mallory is about to shrug and walk away—because Ursula has no right to feel anything other than blessed that she’s carrying Jake’s baby, in Mallory’s opinion—Ursula breaks down into full-blown sobs, and Mallory softens. Maybe Leland was right—Mallory is suggestible, easily swayed. Or maybe our girl is just kind and sympathetic.

“Come here,” Mallory says. She leads Ursula to the lounge and sits next to her on the divan. She places a tentative hand on Ursula’s back; Ursula is so thin, Mallory can feel the distinct knobs of her spine. She isn’t sure what to say, so she nods at the bowl on the counter. “Would you like a butter mint?”

Ursula shakes her head, though the sobbing subsides a bit.

“I’m Mallory Blessing. Cooper’s sister.”

“I know,” Ursula says. “I saw you at the first wedding.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset about this. Is it the timing or…”

Ursula drops her face into her hands and shakes her head. “No. Well, I mean,
yes,
but that’s not the worst part.”

Mallory produces a tissue from her clutch and presses it on Ursula. This is crazy, right, that she’s here in the bathroom, comforting Ursula?

Yes, it is crazy. But then, a second later,
crazy
is redefined.

“The problem is,” Ursula says, “it’s not…it’s not…jayblibberkiz.”

“Wait,” Mallory says, because she didn’t catch the second part of Ursula’s sentence. “What? It’s not what?”

The door swings open and the lounge is overtaken by white organza and the sound of Spanish wailing. It’s Valentina. Carlotta dutifully follows behind, holding up Valentina’s prodigious train.

Valentina is hysterical. She looks around the lounge. She clearly needs a place to collapse, but the best spots are occupied by Ursula and Mallory.

Ursula stands up, and she and Valentina execute a do-si-do. Should Mallory ask Valentina what’s wrong? She probably doesn’t want to talk to Mallory, and anyway, she has Carlotta, who can speak her native tongue and who is not her new husband’s sister.

Mallory and Ursula aren’t finished. Or are they? They have no choice but to step out into the hallway, where they can all too clearly hear the band playing “Two Tickets to Paradise.” The moment of confidence between them has been broken, but Mallory gives it one last shot.